I have never been very big on St. Valentine’s Day. As a child I detested it because I was forced to give a card to every student in class. This caused me a lot of grief because I absolutely hated half of my fifth grade class, but that was well-earned seeing that they called my freckles “gay.” This led to an insatiable urge to rid myself of them with a potato peeler when I realized that I was gay a few years later (don’t feel bad for me though, most of those fifth graders are ugly now). Then when I reached high school the holiday lost its last reason for celebration when I discovered that candy was a poor substitute for a cigarette.
Despite all of this, I would still feel an occasional pang of sadness throughout the day. It wasn’t the fact that many of my friends were getting gifts and going out to fancy dinners. No, it was because they were going to have sex that night and I wasn’t. On February 15th I would always make certain to wait until late in the evening before visiting friends so that they had enough time to wash their sheets before I came over. However celibate I was, I still didn’t require a map of stains in order to understand their stories of love and lust. I might have been green with envy, but I was as red as their carnations (most of my friends date people with terrible taste) with anger that they and not I were getting some.
This year was different and I decided to find out if I am truly as cynical as I believe I am. Was it a lack of assistance during orgasms that upset me or was that simply a cover for chronic loneliness? This past St. Valentine’s Day was the first time that I had been having anything close to regular sex with someone and I spent the day, against my own will, hearing people debate whether or not their V-Day depression was worthy. And being one of the few people who, despite not being in a relationship, still knows that their next night of sex isn’t very far off, put me in a position to answer that question.
One point for cynicism.
None for the desire to be happy in a socially acceptable way.
I spent the day getting a little drunk and talking to my friends about this fact. Is my heart as black as my lungs? Am I lacking the gene that should be keeping me up at night because nobody is willing to buy me a diamond ring hidden in a condom wrapper? Should I be placing singles ads stating that I enjoy long walks on the beach and vomiting pure liquor behind shrubbery?
No on all accounts. I am not saying that I am opposed to relationships, I suppose they are nice and all, but what I am saying is that I am just as happy without one. Sex and love all rolled up into one person? I am only twenty years old; I can’t even find a mixed drink that can keep me happy, so why should I stress out about a single person? Anyway, I love things. I love most of my friends, I love my baby sister, I love cigarettes and I know that cigarettes love me back. Plus, I feel more fulfilled in my life right now than I have ever felt and I see nothing wrong with this.
I tried to explain this to some of my more romantic friends. They understood what I was saying but claimed that there was just something about the day that made them feel sad. They said that it was the fact that the day was one to celebrate being part of a couple and that they weren’t and felt left out. I suggested that we create a holiday to making friends, drinking a alcohol, and having promiscuous sex (already an MSU tradition in some circles, I presume). But they quickly reminded me that here in East Lansing that is known as Welcome Week. But I think that there is enough room on the calendar for a couple of such celebrations. Because having to see people either pretend to be in love or be depressed because they aren’t and cannot find anyone to pretend with them honestly makes me ill.
So who needs cards and flowers? I don’t and anyway next month is St. Patrick’s Day. Now there is a holiday I love. A lot of beer and nobody will make me want to carve off the top layer of my skin.

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